


dead inside your head

by thedrugdealingshark



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Gore, Guns, Isolation, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Death, POV Second Person, Self-Loathing, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3564884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedrugdealingshark/pseuds/thedrugdealingshark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This was what you had wanted, you’d dreamed about it for weeks. You’d lay beside Bray in his bed, watch him sleep, and wonder what the inside of his skull looked like. You’d wanted to paint your face with his blood and declare yourself the new eater of worlds. If you’d slayed a dragon like Wyatt, that would’ve made you pretty much invincible."</p>
<p>or little snippets ft. the roller coaster ride that is Dean's sanity and emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Come on, do it!”

You’ve got Bray down on the floor, straddling him, a gun pressed to his forehead. The gun is your own, it makes you feel safe, you like having it on you. You’ve never fired it before; you’re not _that_ crazy, but you know, when the time comes, you’ll know how to use it. 

Your dad taught you how before he was put in prison. 

He had that “everyone’s out to get me” kind of logic. Some of it’s rubbed off on you over time. 

You can only trust yourself. Bray had told you that. 

The barrel of the gun is pressed up against Bray’s forehead and your hand is shaking. Your entire body is shaking. Shaking so violently that it hurts. 

You’ve been aching for this moment, so badly that you could feel your heartbeat reverberating in your skin. You wanted to feel the life escape through Bray’s body beneath you. You wanted to hear Bray’s last stolen breath. You wanted to see Bray’s chest rise and then fall for the very last time. 

You wanted the sound of the gunshot to ring in your ears for days. 

Bray’s staring up at you, eyes wide and alive. His mouth is open into a breathless smile as if he welcomes death. Either that or he knows you’ll never pull the trigger. Maybe you know it too. 

“Do it!” 

You’re crying. Every sob escapes your body violently, tearing its way out. Carrying out every shred of warmth you’ve ever known. This is your darkest of times. 

_How far are you willing to go towards the flame without getting burned?_

The hand that’s not holding the gun is balled up in Bray’s shirt. Your nose is bleeding, probably broken. It’s Bray’s doing. You probably deserved it, seeing as you threatened (and still are currently in the process of trying) to kill him. 

A sort of whistling whines its way from your nose when you try breathing in. Blood trickles down out of your nose, mixing with the tears. It trickles its way down, past your mouth, past your chin, and drops, one by one, onto the fabric of Bray’s shirt. 

Bray’s eyes are locked onto yours. Daring you. 

_Pull the trigger. Do it._

You envision yourself pulling the trigger. The deafening boom that you’ve only experienced through movies. Bray’s head being knocked back against the wooden floors, a fresh, bloody hole where the gun used to be. You imagine watching the light leave Bray’s eyes. A fire being extinguished. The everlasting look of peace on his face that would remain there until it rotted off. 

You can’t decide if the feeling that would follow suit would be guilt or satisfaction. 

“You are weak, Dean Ambrose,” Bray says. Those same words have seemed to follow you through out your entire life. You’ve always tried to prove against them. You’re tired of trying. “do us both a favor, darling, and pull - that - trigger,” 

You want to, but you don’t. 

You need to, but you don’t. 

You have to, but you don’t. 

It’s simple. A slight twitch of the index finger and it’s over. This is the easiest yet most difficult task you’ve ever been assigned. 

“I can’t,” Your voice is completely broken. Shattered into an barely intelligible sob. 

This was your idea all along. Carry out the mission. You’re a spineless, pathetic excuse for a - 

“Yes, you can,” Bray wants it more than you do. He’s begging you, laughing at you, mocking you. 

_You can’t kill me, because I’m already dead._

You’re curious enough to want to put that to the test. Prove that Bray Wyatt was nothing more than breathing flesh. You’re scared enough that you’re finger only grazes against the trigger, nothing more. 

You readjust your grip. Tears sting in your eyes. If you squint, the lights in the room dance together. 

“Go ahead,” Bray says as if he’s nudging a baby to take its first steps. “kill me, Dean. You’re the last thing I want to see before I die.” 

“Shut up,” You’re saying, pleading. Spitting the words out as if they were laced with poison. 

Bray’s mouth closes. His jaw clenches. He looks at you like he’d rather be on the giving end of this situation. 

Damn it. DamnitDamnitDamnitDamnit. 

“I - Bray, I -” 

You can’t decide if Bray really wants to die or if he’s trying to trick you into thinking he does. And you’d thought you were done with the mind games. Should it really matter, anymore? 

This was what you had wanted, you’d dreamed about it for weeks. You’d lay beside Bray in his bed, watch him sleep, and wonder what the inside of his skull looked like. You’d wanted to paint your face with his blood and declare yourself the new eater of worlds. If you’d slayed a dragon like Wyatt, that would’ve made you pretty much invincible. 

_Hear, citizens, I am your new ruler, bow before me in the name of Ambrose._

Nobody burns brighter than you. Bray had told you that. 

But he was making it so easy, like he wanted nothing more than to die at your hand. 

This was what you had wanted. Wasn’t it? 

\- - - - - 

It’s sometime after Seth betrays you that you decide not to ever trust anybody ever again. Maybe not even Roman, just because you think you know him doesn’t mean you do. And who’s to say he wouldn’t follow in Seth’s footsteps, turn himself over to the Authority, and hit you with a fucking chair? Nobody. Because it can’t be proven. 

But Roman’s trying hard, you think, he’s trying real hard to let you know that he would never even _dream_ of doing what Seth did. But, you don’t know that. Roman could be lying through his teeth, he could be telling the honest truth, but the problem is, you’d never know. Only Roman knows, and since you don’t have access to his brain, you can’t be sure. 

This is what trust is about. 

The night, _that_ night, when you arrived at the arena with Seth and left without him, is when all the hope and warmth radiating within your body was ripped away like duct tape. Leaving behind an ugly, gaping hole of sadness and regret that you’d spent so long covering up. 

This is where the story begins. 

Roman didn’t talk to you that night. You didn’t talk to him, either. You had nothing yet so much to say. You didn’t know where to begin; you didn’t want to. 

After the officials released you, Roman was waiting outside. Head down. Hands shoved in his pockets. You walk out and the door closes behind you. Roman glances up at you, and gives you this sad little smile that feels like a stab to your gut. The two of you pack your stuff in silence and leave the arena. Broken. Betrayed. Bare. 

To your surprise, Roman doesn’t book his own room back at the hotel. The two of you head up to the room you’d left that morning with Seth. If you close your eyes and inhale deeply enough, you imagine that you can still smell him. 

The next morning, Roman says it to you while you’re brushing your teeth. 

“I just want to let you know - straight up - that I would never do what he did, you know that, right?” 

For the longest of time, the two of you would only refer to Seth in pronouns. A part of the healing process, you guessed. 

You glance up at him through the mirror. His face is stern, unreadable. Handsome compared to yours, which is heavy with sleep and exhaustion. There’s toothpaste on the corners of your mouth and you spit into the sink. 

“No,” you say. “I don’t know that.” 

It’s early and you really don’t want to do this. You don’t want to start a fight with Roman. You don’t feel like arguing, but you just have to let him know. I don’t trust you. 

He sighs like he expected that all along. His eyes dart down to the floor and then back up at your reflection. He nods, deflated, and turns back into the other room. 

_Sorry._

After a shower, you walk back into the main part of the hotel room to find Roman sitting on the edge of his bed, frowning down at his phone. One of the complementary hotel towels is wrapped around your waist, large and fluffy, and you run another one through your hair. 

“What is it?” you nod towards his phone. 

Roman glances up at you, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth for the slightest of seconds as he shrugs his shoulders. “S’nothing, just thought maybe I should delete his number - won’t be using it anymore, you know?” 

You clear your throat and nod as if last night’s events weren’t a total tragedy. You’re just trying to move on, like Roman, and like any normal, sensible human would. You still hate Seth, and you still crave more than anything to get your hands around his neck and squeeze the life out of him, but there will be a time for that, and right now, you’re just trying to make it through out the day. 

“I deleted it from my phone last night,” you say, and clear your throat again. Remember to breathe. “when I was with the officials.” 

“Yeah,” he says - and he glances up at you once more, and then down to the carpet, spaced out, focusing on something that’s not there - and then: “still can’t believe it happened, though.” 

You can’t either, and in a way, you wished it hadn’t. 

\- - - - - 

You’ve never hated anything more than you hate Seth Rollins right in this very moment. 

Beating into his motionless body, throwing punch after punch, he just lays on the mat and takes it. You’re seething with rage, the pain that you once felt is merely background noise. You feel more alive than you’ve ever felt before. It’s almost intoxicating. 

You line his head up with the cinder block. This is it. The moment you’ve been waiting for ever since you felt the cold metal of that folding chair being brought down upon your body. This is it. 

“You stabbed me in the back, you son of a bitch,” You don’t find out you’d screamed that at him until later when you’re re-watching the tapes. Spit and fury flying out of your mouth, eyes glazed over with hatred. 

And, then, nothing. Darkness. You think for a moment you might’ve died. 

Cell phones being lit up, one by one. Chanting. That voice, you’d recognize it anywhere. 

You stand alone in the darkness, confused, angry. Seth’s still using the cinder block for a pillow, completely unaware to the world. 

In the middle of the ring stands a lantern, oh, how fucking cliche it all is. Smoke emits from it and within the smoke dances a small figure. You step in closer, cautiously, and Bray hits you like a ton of bricks. From nowhere. 

You find yourself wondering why Bray targeted you of all people, and why he chose now to do it. 

You only faintly remember Seth pinning you for the win. Everything else is fuzzy. Distant. 

You chose Hell and Hell chose you back. 

\- - - - - 

You’re back at the hotel and you’re pissed. You’re pissed at Seth for getting the win. And you’re pissed at Bray for interfering. And you’re pissed at yourself for not seeing that this would happen sooner. 

You’d had him, you’d had Seth right in the palm of your hand, your fingers were closing in on his pathetic existence for eternity and Bray Wyatt jerks your hand open and Seth flies away. Like a disgusting little moth. 

You book your own room, but Roman follows you inside anyway. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. He already knows the answer. 

You throw your bag down, exhausted, pissed, and you pace the floor like your searching for some way to rewind time and murder Seth before he was even born. 

But, Seth’s not your problem anymore. Bray Wyatt is. 

Oh, right. 

“Man, come on, you’re scaring me,” Roman says from the door way. He’s got the door propped open with his hand, bag dangling in the other, and when you don’t reply, he steps inside. 

What’s the nicest way possible to tell someone to leave you the fuck alone? 

But, it’s Roman, you remind yourself, so you don’t say anything. 

“You saw what happened,” You grind the sentence out, and it’s more of an accusal than it is a statement. 

“Yeah,” He says. 

You stop, right in the middle of the room, and you bury your face in your hands like the sudden darkness will help nudge you into a coma. Perfectly still. Like a statue. And you breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. 

“It’s just Bray Wyatt,” Roman’s still here. You make that note with more spite than you’d admit to. Because it’s Roman. Because Roman’s your friend. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You peek up at him through the cracks between your fingers. Your voice muffled through your hands. 

“What it means is - Bray’s not as big of a threat as you think he is,” Roman’s got that soothing edge to his voice. He’d use it when convincing you and Seth not to rip each other’s throats out during the early days of the Shield. You didn’t get along with him, but over time, you learned to trust him, and he became family. That was then. “yeah, he’ll try getting into your head and all that, but it’s just background noise, all the shit he says, you can just block it out,” 

“Yeah, maybe you can,” Your hands drop down to your sides. Progress. “I just wanna know what the fuck he wants - and why he cost me my match - see, that bastard knew, he fucking knew what he was doing, he knew that Seth would pin me, and he knew how personal it was, and how long I’d been waiting for that-” 

“Dude,” Roman crosses the room in three easy strides and places a hand on your shoulder. “maybe it’s nothing, just get some sleep, everything will make sense in the morning.” 

Sometimes you envy Roman for being able to look at life so simply. Like the solutions to every problem is within reach. Maybe you could learn from it. 

When you agree to stop being difficult and act like a normally functioning human being again, Roman leaves, and you go to bed. You don’t fall asleep right away, images of that night play behind your eyelids like a slideshow. 

The cage. You climbing up the cage. Seth climbing up there with you. You punching Seth. Seth punching you. The remains of the announce table while your and Seth’s bodies laid in the middle of it. Motionless. The cinder block: Seth’s head looming over it. 

The lantern. Bray: his face turned upside down and he’s looking at you through glass eyes. Distant. Clouded. 

You see these images until you’re furious again and you’re taking it out on your pillow. Punching it. Punching the mattress. Pretending it’s flesh. Pretending it’s Seth, pretending it’s Bray. You hate them. You hate them and you hate their entire existence. 

But, then again, maybe it is nothing. Maybe Bray will bring children wearing sheep’s masks to the ring again and you’ll be able to ignore it. Maybe he’ll prod and poke at the insides of your mind, unearthing every fear, every weakness, and you’ll be able to smile while he’s doing it. 

You repeat this to yourself until you fall asleep. And even then, you dream of punching Seth and Bray until they’re nothing more than a pile of their own blood. 

\- - - - - 

Monday morning, when you’re in the shower, and the mild, watered down feeling of rage is still pumping through your veins, you decide that you probably hate Bray more than you do Seth right now. 

But, you still hate Seth, you’ll always hate Seth. Bray Wyatt is just an annoying little cockroach that needs to be exterminated. 

Over time, while you’re throwing on your clothes, while you’re in the car with Roman, and while you’re walking in the arena to film Raw, you decide to let your hatred for Seth take the backseat to your hatred for Bray. 

Bray is your main focus right now. Find out what he wants. Find out how to beat him. And then, do it. 

Roman hardly ever fights anymore, since he’s been injured, but he still comes to some of the shows. To help watch your back, to help look after you, no matter how many times you insist that you don’t need it. Sometimes, you wish you could trust Roman, and maybe over time, you’ll be able to. 

When you go to leave the locker room, Roman wishes you luck. It’s not a good feeling to know that Roman sees Bray as more of a threat than you do. You don’t like that Bray is the possibility of being a threat, or any source of danger that might be caused to you later on. It’s far more comforting to think of him as some harmless crazy that talks too much. 

So, for now, until proven otherwise, Bray is not a threat. 

You call him out, demanding to know why he targeted you at Hell in a Cell, and he more or less gives you an answer. Not in person, of course, because anything hardly ever goes your way and if it did, Bray would be here, not on the titantron and you’d be able to satisfy your bloodlust. 

Bray emits from the fog-occupied room of an unknown location and says, with his head tipped down, that he admires your rage. In other words, he’s not afraid if you. Where you don’t find him to be a threat, he doesn’t think of you as one either. You swallow down your anger and it builds into a lump in your throat. 

Bray says that he sees himself in you, that you are one in the same, different sides to one fucked up coin. You know he’s right. You’re the same deranged psychopath only at different levels of intensity. You learn something new that’s been hanging in front of you all along. 

He leaves you with more questions than answers and you storm backstage and the frustration shows itself once again. You slam the door to your locker room like it’s personally offended you and Roman raises an eyebrow. 

“How’d it go?” He asks. He’s hunched over in one of the chairs, his frame large in comparison to the folding chair of which he sits in. 

“Fine,” you say in way that would lead anybody to believe that it didn’t and Roman knows you’re lying. 

But he doesn’t press any further, because being with you for years has lead him to recognize when you don’t want to talk about a certain thing and this is something you definitely don’t want to talk about right now. Part of you still wishes you were fighting Seth, at least he was predictable. You have no idea what’s going on in Bray’s mind or what he’s planning to do. He wants to scare you, that part is obvious, but how he plans to do it, you have no idea. 

But, still, it helps to ease the tension for the slightest of moments when you think of Bray to not be a threat. You can power through this. Because Bray isn’t a threat, and pretty soon, you’ll be standing over his carcass and you’ll be the one shining with victory. Bray will be no more and you’ll be one step ahead. 

So, no, Bray Wyatt isn’t a threat. 

\- - - - - 

_Come find me, Dean._

Bray calls you out like an omen. He’s made it clear that his sights are set directly on you. Point blank. He calls out the Dean Ambrose that’s been hidden away behind the mask of illusion. He calls out the Dean Ambrose that he shares that inner demon with. He calls out the Dean Ambrose he thinks he knows, but doesn’t. 

Bray’s already making the wrong accusations; You’re not some mysterious puzzle waiting to be solved. You’re just you. And you doesn’t hide yourself behind a mask and you doesn’t show only the fraudulent side of yourself to hide the real. 

Bray doesn’t know you at all. There’s no possibility of him ever knowing you. 

Your hands are aching to get around his neck. Choke out all those lies. But, you haven’t gotten to yet and it’s all you can think about. 

So, the invitation comes as more of a relief and you go out and search for him. He’s not hard to find, you just gotta know where to look. The shadows of the arena is his favorite hiding place because Bray Wyatt is a man of spooky cliches. 

“The ability to mindlessly follow instructions,” Bray’s leaned up against a wall, his hat tipped down low over his face. You feel the vein in your temple clench. “I like that.” 

He thinks you’re afraid of him, but you’re not. You can’t let yourself be. 

“Bite me,” You’ve got the intent of breezing right by him. You decide you’re not in the mood but Bray steps in front of you, blocking your pathway like the childish little shit he is. 

Bray smiles. “His teeth are only as sharp as his wit.” 

You breathe through your nose. Steady and slow. 

Then, you make a swing at him. 

You’re not even surprised that he catches your hand. In one, swift movement, you’re being pressed up against the wall with Bray’s hand around your throat. He’s leering at you. You bite back a string of curses as you struggle against him. 

“Your anger, while it is something of the extraordinary, needs to be controlled.” Bray breathes in your face. Hot and steady. “you are a slave to your emotions.” 

“ _Fuck_ you,” 

Bray laughs at this, and you swear, if his fingers weren’t digging into your windpipe, you’d knock his fucking teeth down his throat. “Don’t be afraid of the things outside your door. You’re the chaotic little center of the world. They should be afraid of you.” 

You can’t breathe and enraged panic seeps its way into your system. Bray’s staring at you, still holding you to the wall with just his fucking hand. Like you’re the most puzzling yet interesting thing in the entire world. Like he sees right through you and keeps on going. 

Finally, after the oxygen has left your brain and your vision is fading, Bray lets you go. His fingers unravel from around your throat and air rushes back into your lungs, choking you and leaving you a mass of defeat against the wall. 

One blink and he’s gone. You’re still pissed. 

\- - - - - 

Things have become unintentionally tense with Roman after this point in time. If you didn’t know any better, you’d blame that on Bray, too. 

Bray’s still coming at you hard. A spider taunting you and then disappearing before you can squash it. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t let Bray get to you, and you haven’t, but at times, when he says the shit he says and he does the shit he does, it feels as if you’re hanging on by a thread. 

And what you can’t seem to wrap your head around is that Bray’s intentions aren’t based off hostility but rather camaraderie. Bray relates with you, he says he’s felt the same pain you’ve felt, been underestimated in the same way you’ve been. 

You can’t tell if he’s actually telling the truth or just trying to get in your head. Either way, you try not to listen, but at times, it’s all you can hear. 

You still hate him with the passion of a thousand suns, you still long to see his broken mangled body lying beneath you on the mat. That will never change. 

Roman’s worried about you and you don’t like that he has a reason to worry. Which, he doesn’t, you’re fine, but he can’t seem to understand that. At least his intentions are good. 

“The sky is never coming back,” you tell him one day. The two of you are in your locker room, and he’s still hanging around despite his condition, and it tugs at something in your heart to know that he chooses you over relief. “it’s only darkness from now on.” 

The words are Bray’s, and you don’t even realize this until it’s out of your mouth. 

You see Roman glance over at you with peaked interest. Before, his gaze was lingering on the ground, that ‘deep in thought’ that he wears sometimes, but now, his attention’s turned to you. His brows furrow when he processes your words. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The Shield - it was our utopia,” you look back at him with something crossed between a smirk and a scowl. “now, though, is darkness, the broken remains of something greater - our dystopia.” 

Roman chuckles, shaking his head, and he’s not taking it as seriously as you would’ve hoped but you find yourself smiling along, anyway. “What - man, have you been watching those sci-fi movies again?” 

You shrug at this. A slight jerky motion. The smile still lingers on your lips. “I don’t know - it’s just - sad - to think of what we could have been, you know. What we were. It was us against the world, Roman, and he ruined that.” 

And just like that, the air is sucked out of the room. Roman’s laugh dies off in his throat. 

“It’s still like that, Dean.” You don’t like how he’s looking at you now. Hesitant. Wary. Like you’re a ticking time bomb about to go off. 

You try not to let the bitterness show in your voice. “Yeah, but, it’s not the same, is it?”


	2. Chapter 2

“You can only trust yourself,” Bray tells you one day backstage.

He more or less wandered up to you, and it seems like he’s made a habit of doing that these days: just finding you where ever you may be and spouting some random shit to you that you realize the meaning to while lying in bed that night. Because everything Bray says has some sort of hidden meaning to it, you just gotta turn it over in your head a few times to discover it.

You’ve never met anyone like that before.

You might consider Bray to be interesting, but you still hate the sight of him. Just because he talks pretty doesn’t take away from the fact that the two of you are at war.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” You could easily avoid him by just staying in your locker room, but without admitting to it, or maybe without realizing it, you hang around out in the open waiting for Bray to find you.

Bray’s smirking at you in a fond sort of way that makes your insides clench up. “It means, darling, to trust no one, the world is filled with traitors and backstabbers disguised as your friends - which this - you should already know.”

“Did you come here just to make me feel bad or something?” The old familiar feeling of mild resentment is seeping its way back into your veins. “Bring up bad memories that I’ve spent the past few months trying to get rid of?”

“I tell you this to help you,” Bray says.

“Why would you wanna help me?”

“To help myself,”

Your brows furrow at this. The mask is broken and as much as you hate to admit it, Bray’s probably already won this round.

_Okay..._

“You made a wise decision to leave Seth Rollins behind, even if he abandoned to you first - but what I can’t figure out is why you haven’t discarded of Roman Reigns yet.”

“Because, he’s my friend, asshole,”

“Is he?” Bray’s eyebrows lift up in mocking surprise.

“Yeah,” You sneer. “he is,”

“You know, you can’t get into my head with that reverse psychology bullshit, you can’t get into my head at all.” You have this eerie feeling that Bray already has, but managing fronts has always been in your area of expertise. “My mind is locked up, secure, stored away safely inside my skull and you,” you emphasize this by poking a finger to his chest. “ain’t gettin’ in it.”

“I’m aware of this, Dean,” Bray sighs, impatient. “and I can only intrude your mind if you allow me to do so, so if you do, remember this, all you have to do is open the door,”

\- - - - -

You’re in the car with Roman, the two of you are on your way back to the hotel. You’re arguing again. Seth’s not here to break up the fight anymore, so it goes on, undisturbed. He was useless like that.

“No matter how much you wanna act like you care more for me, I know - I can see that it's all a lie,” You’re seething in the passenger’s seat, jerky and disoriented with rage. You’re not even sure who started the fight.

It’s funny, you think, how your and Roman’s friendship came together through mindless arguing and how it’s probably gonna end that way as well. Seth was right all along, he was the true force that held you and Roman together. That kept you and Roman from going at each other’s necks. Maybe he wasn’t so useless after all.

Roman won’t look at you and it pisses you off that much more.

“You’re out of your damn mind if you think I don’t care for you, Dean, because-” He’s saying, but you have to intervene.

Getting the last word had always been one of your many specialties.

“Hey, hey, no, man, it's alright,” Roman inhales through his nose. You can practically smell the frustration coming off of him. Absolutely intoxicating. “you don't have to keep piling the lies on, I know the truth.”

“No, if-”

“Seth mattered to you more,” You’re somewhere between glaring out the window and having your entire body facing him. The seat belt strains around your form. “You expected me to - you thought it would be _me_ \- who would betray us.”

That was something unproven, but it was something you’ve carried the suspicion around for months. You didn’t say a word. Until now.

Roman hesitates to deny it. “ _No,_ I-”

“Damn it, just listen to me,” His frustration fuels your frustration. “just shut the fuck up and listen to me for a minute, haven't I earned that?”

Silence fills the car. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Your eyes are clenched shut so tightly you can see a glimpse of outer space’s stars. “I can tell you one thing, Roman, I may be a fucking low-life gutter rat, but I'm not a traitor, and I'm not a fucking sell out-”

“I never said you were-”

“Shut up. I'm better than him, and everyone should fucking know it by now. But, they don't, so I might as well go prove it to them.”

Open your eyes. You see Roman’s still glaring at the road, his jaw clenched.

He wants you to shut up. “Without Seth, the Shield is done, man,” you continue, anyway. “We have no fucking hope - no future - without him. The Shield is dead, Roman, and now, we're at a crossroads. Just make your pick.”

You pull into the parking lot of the hotel. Roman kills the engine and sits there, still staring ahead, as if he’s processing your words.

“We’re at a crossroads,” You repeat, unbuckling your seat belt. Roman doesn’t budge. “Which way you goin'?”

\- - - - -

Another night, another arena, and you’ve already lost track of what day it is. It’s a Monday, you know that much, and you wouldn’t even know that if there wasn’t big signs hung up around the arena to remind you that you’re at Raw.

You’re outside in the parking lot, the stars twinkling above you as you watch the last members of the roster pull into their parking spots.

The Usos. Tyson Kidd and Natalya. A few jobbers you can’t remember the names of.

You watch from the shadows as they circle around to the trunk of their cars, pull out their luggage, and march into the building. Nobody notices you, you prefer it that way.

You bring the forgotten cigarette that’s mostly ash more than it is anything else to your lips and inhale. You’d told Roman you had quit smoking, and part of you wishes he’d come out here to find you, just so you could piss him off that much more before the night was over.

Throwing your head back to the black canvas of the sky, you exhale, and watch as the smoke dances up from your lips. Before finally dispersing into nothing. There could probably be a metaphor found in it somewhere, but for right now it’s calming just to watch.

Your heart beat is steadied, tranquil, and for once, you don’t have to be the chaotic little center of the world.

It’s the feeling of a hand being placed on your shoulder that kicks your mind back into defense mode. You don’t even realize it as the cigarette falls from between your fingers.

You whirl around, wide-eyed and alarmed, only to find Bray standing before you, his daunting smirk in place. He’s still able to get to you, and it frustrates you to no end.

“What?” You snap, irritated and bothered, but Bray never wavers.

Bray laughs at this, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he circles around you. You’re stiff, on edge, and your eyes follow his every move. Your head turns with him, that way, he’s never out of your sight. An enemy is most dangerous when they’re within your blind spot.

“You’re always so hostile,” He stops in front of you, turning to face you head on. The glimmer of amusement never leaves his features. “some things never change, do they?”

“What do you want?” You ask. Bray’s eyes are smiling at you, the aura of patience wafts off of him to the point where it’s unbearable. Everything about him gets under your skin, he is revolting to your senses.

And yet, you can feel yourself slipping under his grasp.

“A moment of your time, that’s all,” is what Bray says to that, like he genuinely means it. Then he laughs again, short and wheezy. Like he has no idea why you’d be asking such a question. “all I want is to see your shining face every moment I can.”

When he reaches out to touch your shoulder, every fiber of your being is screaming at you to recoil. You don’t. You let Bray place his palm on your shoulder once more, the warmth of it more comforting than it should be.

You don’t say anything, you just narrow your eyes at him, waiting for something to happen. You’re waiting for _something_ \- for Luke Harper to come around the corner and bash you in the back of the head, for Bray to use his weird voodoo magic to somehow knock you unconscious by simply touching you.

You don’t trust Bray, and he’s still not as predictable as you’d like him to be, but he’s honest. As much as you hate to admit it - the man’s never lied to you. If you dig down deep enough, you might find that you’d respect that quality.

Nothing happens. No Harper, no voodoo, and Bray’s talking again.

“I want you on my side, darling, as I am already on yours. We live in a world where it is repeatedly beat into our heads that we are not perfect. We are the imperfect little mortal creatures that roam the earth like rats in a sewer. That's where we come in. We can turn this world around, you and I, and we can stand out against the others. As perfection against imperfection."

It’s when Bray finishes that you realize you’d had your mouth open the entire time and you close it. Any speech you’d prepared about how you work on your own terms has departed. You blame the voodoo.

Bray uses your silence to his advantage. “I want to fix you, Dean,”

“I don’t need you to fix me,” The response is almost instinctive. You’re always so quick to assure anybody and everybody you don’t need assistance. Even when you really do.

Pride. It seems like the only thing you’ve got left to hold you together these days. It’s your own personal gum and duct tape.

Bray knows this, you can tell from the way he’s looking at you that he knows this. He sees through you. Every act and every layer of armor he can see right through.

“You think Roman Reigns will fix you? You think Seth Rollins will come back and fix you?” There it is, another jab to your insecurities. “Nah, man, nobody has any intentions on fixing you except me, everyone but me has forgotten about Dean Ambrose, haven’t they?”

KO.

“Roman hasn’t forgotten about me,” you don’t know who you’re trying to convince, Bray or yourself. Maybe if you keep pushing him away, he eventually will.

“Not yet,” Bray says. “give him time and he’ll stomp on you just like Seth Rollins did. You are an obstacle in his path to success, and when he finally reaches the top, do you really think he’ll remember you?”

His hand moves to your jaw, along with his other one, and he’s cradling your face. “How far are you willing to go towards the flame without getting burned? Prove to him that you are the superior one before he can. All you are destined to be, Dean Ambrose, I can help you achieve.”

You’re falling within dangerous territory and Bray’s words sound so tempting. You’re also a little hard, but honestly, you’ve been a little hard since Bray began talking.

“Alright,” you say, and you’re not even completely sure of what you’re agreeing to, but Bray smiles anyway and leans in, placing his lips against your forehead. You melt into the gesture in an embarrassing sort of way but melt into it, nonetheless.

“Those who strive for what they deserve are not selfish, but wise,” Bray whispers the words against your skin. “do not let anyone tell you any different,”

All the warmth of Bray’s touch is replaced by the cold night air within seconds and Bray leaves you with more questions than answers. You’ve joined him, you’re letting him fix you, whatever all that means, but the promises redemption are more than intoxicating, and you’re eager to finally experience it.

\- - - - -

The first time you kiss Bray is after your match together at Survivor Series. It’s a little while after you’ve joined him and he finds you frustrated yet pleased with the outcome of the match.

Or maybe you found him, it’s not like you could bear to keep up with who sought out who anymore. The two of you just found your path intertwining with the other.

He’s saying something encouraging, his words sounding like he’s speaking under water at this point, and he’s got his hands on the back of your neck. Your forehead pressed against his.

And you kiss him.

Maybe because you want to, or maybe just to shut him up, but you still kiss him.

You kiss him, right on the mouth, and it’s quick. Meaningless. But it sparks somewhere inside you like you have electricity running through your veins. It’s worth it just to see the look of astonishment on Bray’s face. It makes you feel powerful.

“I think I’ve finally figured it out,” You say, the words shaky and breathless. “why you chose me in the first place.”

“Why’s that, darling?” Bray’s probably just as breathless as you are, but he still manages to sound so much stronger. It doesn’t discomfort you as much as it should.

“Because, we’re the same person,” the statement sounded less ridiculous in your head, but there’s no trace of assessment in Bray’s eyes. “you’re what I want to become, and I’m what you used to be.”

It’s a far stretch, but it makes sense to you.

You are him, he is you.

\- - - - -

Surprisingly, nothing changes after that. You and Bray still fight in front of the cameras, you’re still Roman’s less important friend, and you don’t tell anyone about the agreement.

Not Roman, not anybody. More or less under Bray’s request.

Fast forward two months, and the year of 2014 is approaching its end, as is your war with Bray. Roman’s back from his injury and he’s better than ever. People are happy to see him, you wonder what that must feel like.

Your feud with Bray has ran its course, and now, the only thing holding the story line together is cheesy, themed matches. But, still, you fight Bray like you were born to do it. Only you and Bray know its all a phony front.

Christmas themed matches, boot camp themed matches, and finally, the one to sum it all up: an ambulance match.

This is the end of an era.

The match is scheduled to be on an episode of Raw, and the one who comes out victorious, is more or less, the victor of this entire, 3 month long journey.

Fast forward to the fifth of January, and Bray is claimed the victor. You’re the one who ends up in the back of that ambulance and Bray is left on the floor, laughing, soaking in his triumph.

You don’t see him again until later that night.

He comes to your hotel room, and you’re sore and exhausted, but you open the door to him anyway. You half-expected it to be Roman, coming to mentor you through your loss, but when you’re eyes settle on Bray, you can’t decide if the surprise is a pleasant one or not.

“It’s time,” He says, like he’s the Grim Reaper come to collect your mortal soul. It’s not that big of a comparison anymore.

“For what?”

Bray steps past you and into the room, and you mean to say something, but the words die in your throat. The fight has left you for tonight.

“Why ask questions you already know the answer to?” Bray asks, admiring your hotel room like it’s the fanciest of mansions. His back is turned to you. “Get your stuff, we’re leaving.”

Even as you’re going to gather up what little clothes you brought along, you still ask, “Where are we going?”

Bray turns to you, staring you head on, now. His eyes are little black orbs in the contrast on the overhead light. “Home.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: EXCESSIVE AMOUNTS OF FANTASY BOOKING AHEAD

Bray's house is a nice little secluded shithole located in the middle of vast amounts of land that he refers to simply as "The Compound".

It has the appearance of being abandoned, more external than internal, save for the small details that Bray leaves behind to let you know it isn't. 

His neatly made bed, a low-grade stale fridge filled with strange-looking meats, his Hawaiian shirt draped neatly over one of the chairs in the living room. 

It's a homey little shithole, but still a shithole, nonetheless. 

The water runs at freezing temperatures (when it runs at all), the house feels like the inside of an oven in the summers and then a freezer in the winters, various parts of the roof leaks when it rains, when you turn on a light, another one goes out. 

The smell of mothballs and rotting wood. 

But, you're not complaining, because Bray doesn't complain, so you pretend to like it as much as he does. It's home for you, now. 

After a while of living there, you don't even miss your condo back in Las Vegas. 

\- - - - - 

There's a gaping hole in the kitchen wall where a telephone used to be. You aren't sure if Bray ripped it out or the previous occupant did. 

Still, you don't ask questions. It's better not to. 

\- - - - - 

Bray takes care of his home as if it were a million-dollar mansion; he even makes you go outside to smoke. 

A lesson you learned the hard way. 

You prefer not to talk about it, but let's just say it involves a small scar embedded in the back of your hand. A scar that, if you look closely enough, is roughly the size of the end of a cigarette. 

Bray's lessons come with not only a lecture, but with a smack on the hand, as well. 

Sometimes you feel more like a trained house pet than a potent accomplice. But, again, you don't complain. 

You've learned not to, it does no good anyway. 

\- - - - - 

You're not surprised when you find out Bray's a morning person. 

And we're not talking the usual 8 or 9 kind of morning (if that was the case, it might be more tolerable), but rather the ass-crack of dawn kind of morning when it's still dark as shit outside and the sun doesn't come up for another two hours. 

You have no idea what or why he gets up this early for. You're never awake. 

You were always the sleep-in kind of guy, even when you had early flights to make, you'd fall back asleep on the plane. You didn't like waking up until it was after twelve, at the very least. 

Not anymore. 

Now, you're waking up at 8, exactly, on the dot, every single fucking morning. 

Bray wakes you up. 

Bray makes sure you get up. 

Like you're some scummy solider in the army and he's the colonel with a stick up his ass. 

He wakes you up with soothing words and gentle kisses. If you fall back asleep, he wakes you up by tossing your ass out of bed. 

Bray doesn't play around, he told you that from day one. 

Not so much that verbatim, but something along the lines of it's his world and you're living in it. It wouldn't be like this forever, he added, but in order to be a god, you have to act like a god. 

Apparently gods don't sleep in or smoke in the house. Who knew? 

\- - - - - 

What you're having to wake up so fucking early for, you have no clue. 

After Bray drags you out of bed, he practically escorts you to the kitchen to eat whatever kind of breakfast he's cooked up. 

It's always good, but sometimes you unintentionally remind yourself that it's a great possibility that you could be eating human and you have to swallow your own vomit. 

Note to self: Add 'cannibalism' to your imaginary list of things gods do. 

\- - - - - 

When you're not eating human flesh, using the bathroom, wandering around the compound, sleeping, or fucking, you're basically just standing around, doing nothing. 

If you've already lost your mind, you'd blame it on boredom. 

If not, you will soon. 

You're there to look pretty. A shiny toy that Bray waves around for all to see. 

It's all the same to you. Nobody's ever actually been proud to have you before. 

\- - - - - 

Before, in the wake of ennui, you'd at least have your phone to mess around with. Watch porn, whatever. 

Too bad Bray threw it out the window of a moving vehicle on your first ride back to the Compound. He said it was part of your 'development', but honestly, you think he did it just to spite you. 

He's seeing how far he can push you. 

You're not budging an inch. 

This is one thing you will not and are not going to fuck up. 

Who knew living a domesticated lifestyle would be the one thing you'd actually be committed to? 

You're Bray's trophy wife. 

He's off doing his daily sermons in the morning and you're sneaking cigarettes in the house and blowing the smoke out through the open bedroom window. 

A life only the most healthiest of couples could live. 

Sometimes you forget you live in a cultic region and not the suburbs. 

Before you know it, Bray'll be taking you out on double dates to fancy restaurants with Luke Harper and a half-dead raccoon. 

_Her name's Sally, she's very sensitive about her missing eye, so please, don't stare._

Eat your filet mignon and smile. 

\- - - - - 

In the afternoon, Bray comes back, fixes lunch, and you both eat again. 

You sit at the kitchen table again like the married couple you are and he tells you about his morning. You don't really care but you listen anyway. 

After that, Bray disappears again and you're left to entertain yourself, _again._

\- - - - - 

You've recently discovered a room filled with old books. (What parts of the house that isn't falling apart, you like to explore, it makes you feel like a kid again.) 

They're all bound in leather and covered in a thick layer of dust. Real Addams Family type shit. 

You read parts of them, get bored, and move onto the next one. The only one you actually read an entire page of is some sort of guide on how to skin roadkill. 

Yeah, maybe you have lost your mind. Maybe Bray tossed it out the window along with your phone. 

Still, it's all the same to you. 

\- - - - - 

Bray comes back in the evening and makes dinner. 

You eat, _again_. Bray tells you about his day, _again_. 

He sure does like hearing the sound of his own voice, doesn't he? 

You tell him about your day (most of it being made up since you've spent a good chunk of the day doing things you weren't supposed to) and he listens like you're the most interesting thing in the world. 

It gives you this warm, giddy feeling and God, Bray's turned you into such a fucking girl. 

\- - - - - 

At night, Bray sits on the couch and reads, sometimes to you and sometimes to himself. Either way, you've got your legs propped up in his lap, sprawled back on the rest of the couch like you own the place. 

Sometimes, when you're feeling brave, you'll see how far you can push Bray. 

Two can play in this game. 

One night, you kick the book right out of Bray's hands. 

He gives you a look that makes your hair stand on end. 

Nonetheless, you stare back at him, giving him your award-winning, shit-eating grin. Completely unfazed. 

He still makes you pick the book up off the floor, but you know you've won that round. 

Dean - 1. Bray - 0. 

\- - - - - 

In the later hours of the night, you're either asleep or fucking. Mostly fucking. But, ever so often, when your body needs to heal, Bray lets you rest. 

The sex is, by far, you're favorite part of the entire day. Sex has always been something you enjoyed but Bray makes the experience absolutely mind-blowing. He helped you discover your hidden kink for chanting in Latin. 

(It's his way of dirty talk, you guess. Still, you don't ask questions.) 

Somewhere and anywhere for the rest of your life, when you watch an exorcism movie, you'll get a little bit turned on. 

And when you get him really riled up (or pissed off), you wake up in the morning feeling like your entire ass is broken. But, you carry that limp with pride, not shame. Especially around the other residents of the compound who would sell their first born child to be in your position. They eye you with a certain amount of envy that makes you egg it on that much more. 

\- - - - - 

When you've been there awhile and you can peacefully fall asleep to the sound of the rain leaking through the roof, Bray learns to trust you a little more. He lets you run little milk-and-bread errands here and there. 

It's nice to get out of the house. 

These are the times when you begin to feel more like an equal comrade. 

\- - - - - 

Sometime or another, when you’re tired of watching Bray read at night, you buy a television for the house. 

You’ll never forget the look on Bray’s face when you come back from one of your usual runs to the store to get bread and milk and come back, carrying in a small flat screen instead. 

“Ah, shit, I forgot the milk,” 

Bray looked like he wanted to rip your skin off and use it as a lamp shade. 

But, since Bray’s house is a shithole, you don’t get cable. Luckily, you thought ahead and bought a DVD player and a few movies. While Bray reads, you try your hand at horror movies. 

Maybe it’s not so bad after all. 

\- - - - - 

As far as work goes, not much has changed since you joined Bray. 

You're not doing your promos alone anymore, if you could call them that. You don't have much to say. You let Bray do most of the talking and you linger in the background, throwing in snarky comments when you feel they are needed. 

You still wear your cotton tank top and faded blue jeans to work, only now the Wyatt Family logo is plastered on the front of your shirt. 

You're part of the Wyatt Family, it's easy to forget that sometimes. 

What you think is progress now, past you would have thought to be two steps backwards. But, hey, fuck that guy. Anyone who ever trusted Seth Rollins has an opinion that doesn't fucking matter. 

That guy was weak and pathetic. You're strong, now, people actually listen to what you've got to say, rather than waiting for their turn to reply. 

You enter to the ring with only Bray's lantern and thousands of cellphone lights to illuminate the way. He accompanies you to your matches and you accompany him to his. You're never apart. 

Bray even lets you hold the lantern sometimes. 

Your bigger problem at hand is Roman, who's still in denial that he ever let you slip through the cracks. 

Grow up, you tell him, not everything's sunshine and flowers. People get bored. People move on. With the Shield gone what's there to fight for anymore? You move on to a greater power source. 

You fight with Roman, then Bray fights with Roman. Two against one, always. But, hey, his shirt does say something similar to that. One against all? 

Don't bark if you're not prepared for the bite. 

\- - - - - 

After your feud with Bray ends, you’ve nothing to fight for anymore. 

You’d done your time with Seth, already, so what’s left? 

You disappear for a little while and nobody hears from you. So does Bray, but that’s the final pieces of the puzzle that people don’t start putting together until it’s right out in front of them. 

You come back a couple of months later, refreshed and resettled, and interfere with one of Roman’s matches. 

You make it look like you’re going to help him, that is, until you beat his fucking head in. 

Roman still wins the match due to disqualification, but inside, he’s feeling just as shitty as you did the night Seth brought that chair down upon you. Over and over. 

Roman’s not to blame for Seth’s actions, but you’re letting it be known that you’re turning on him before he turns on you. 

Nobody fucking owns you anymore. Nobody. 

\- - - - - 

On an episode of Smackdown, you explain yourself. 

You say that you’ve done some thinking and after an entire lifetime of searching for the answer, you say, the answer was in front of you the entire time. 

You’re not the hero, you’re not the human embodiment of what’s good and just. You’re a growling, flesh-eating dog, and you’ll step on anything and anyone to get what’s yours. You’re tired of being the underdog, you’re tired of being underestimated. And, now, you’re putting a stop to it. 

Only, the thing is, you can’t do it on your own. So, naturally, you gotta turn to that last little bit of help. 

That help was Bray Wyatt. Bray helps show you that the world is scum beneath your feet and in order to get anywhere, you’re gonna have to step on it. Grind it into the dirt with the other worms. You gotta learn from the best. 

You are meant to be feared. You don’t give a shit about anybody’s feelings. 

Roman comes out and begs to differ. 

He claims that this is not you. This is not who you are. He says he knows you and that Bray is trying to get in your head again. You can’t let him in, Roman says. He’s dangerous when he’s in your head. 

“What do you know about danger, Roman? You’re staring danger right in the face.” 

You’re not his Dean anymore, he doesn’t own you. He’s just a mere fish in your sea. It’s something you gotta pound into his head. Literally. 

After a while, Roman’s starting to get pissed, which is exactly what you wanted. 

Before you know it, you and Bray are something of a tag team that shines down upon the injustice in the world like a glowing beacon (his words, not yours). 

Sounds familiar. 

\- - - - - 

Backstage, you get in everybody’s inimical little faces, they can’t do shit anymore. Nobody can touch you. In order to get to you, they gotta go through Bray. And nobody with enough sense would ever be willing to do that. 

A free pass at being a total dick to everyone. It’s like being with the Shield again, only better. 

You knock the drink out of Curtis Axel’s hand when you pass by him. Nothing. 

You slap some papers out of Kane’s hands. Nothing. 

You wipe your nose on Triple H’s tie when he talks to you. Nothing. 

You hide Wade Barrett’s title. Nothing. 

_Yes, I don’t like you. Yes, there’s nothing you can do about it._

You shove snarky love letters under Stephanie’s office door. 

_Rose are red, violets are blue, you look like a monkey, and smell like one too._

She confronts you about it, but still, nothing. 

“Is this yours?” 

“No, no, whoever wrote that was a true wordsmith, I could never be able to craft such a fine art.” 

Bray chuckles from behind you and tips his hat to her when you walk away. 

Nothing. 

You are the high school bully. The kid that says what everyone else thinks. Does what everyone spends a lifetime dreaming about. There’s no stopping you. 

It’s nice to look back to where you were to where you are now. 

\- - - - - 

_What you know about gods or what you think you know about gods is nothing. Zeus. Hades. Apollo. They are weak in our image. You will hear our names until the end of time. We are the gods you bow before._

You think you pose as a threat to us? Nah, man, the only person you're fighting is yourself. Why can't you accept it, Roman? Why can't you just accept that your boy has turned over to the other side of the moon? I'm afraid to inform you that he's gone, and a new, better, greater, stronger Dean Ambrose rises from the ashes of his broken self and he is a God. 

\- - - - - 

Months later, when you and Bray are dominating the company, you more or less stop by Roman’s locker room to rub it in. 

He greets you with just as much bitterness as you’d expect, but surprisingly, he doesn’t slam the door in your face. 

“What do you want?” is the first thing he says when opening the door. He looked tired, or maybe he’s just drained by your presence, either way, he doesn’t look like he wants to be messed with. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” You tease. “Come on, Roman, we used to be best friends.” 

“Used to,” He points out. His gaze darts to something behind you and you know what he’s looking for. “Where’s your boss?” 

“Around,” you shrug. “you gonna let me in or are you just gonna keep being fucking rude to me?” 

“You’re lucky I haven’t kicked your ass already,” Roman steps aside anyway, and you stroll inside, being sure to bump forcefully into his shoulder upon passing. You hear him shut the door behind you and you turn around. 

He’s staring at you, eyes narrowed, and you start to snap another remark at him, ask him what the fuck he’s looking at, but you don’t. 

“I can’t believe you turned into his monkey,” He says, somewhat disapointedly. “you were the last person I thought that’d happen to.” 

You fold your arms across your chest, smug smirk back in place. “Not monkey - _comrade_ \- besides, weren’t you Seth’s monkey at one point?” 

Roman looks like he has no idea what you’re talking about - which he does, it’s all just a front, that famous hardened exterior he’s been building up since the day he was born - but you elaborate anyway. 

“I saw you out there, saying that he would always be your little brother, like what the fuck, man, do I need to remind you that he hit us fucking chairs?” Maybe that was the first time you’d realized that maybe you’d never be able to trust Roman again - if he could still think of that asshole as a brother, he wasn’t worthy of your trust. “Do I need to remind you that he embarrassed us on live television, that he spit on everything we cared about? We fucking trusted him and he ruined it, he ruined everything, and you still think of him as a brother?” 

Roman’s on the verge of intervening, trying to give a worthless explanation, but you continue anyway. “Yeah, and so fucking what I might be Bray’s monkey, but it’s better than being in the Shield’s shadow.” 

“It was never like that, Dean-” 

“Yeah, it was, you and Seth never gave a shit about me, you were just waiting for me to betray you so you could kick me out, admit it.” 

“What can I do, Dean, tell me,” out of context, the words would’ve sounded like a plead, but this time, they were more of a demand. “what can I do to make you believe that I cared for you just as much as I cared for Seth?” 

“Nothing,” You say, returning his gaze with a sharp glare. “there’s nothing you can do, Roman, because it’s not true.” 

The sound that comes out of Roman’s mouth is something mixed between a growl and a sigh. He runs a hand through his hair and his eyes falter to the ground. The disappointed, ex-best friend act that he’s been carrying around for the past couple of months is back. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.” 

Before, that would’ve probably struck a nerve somewhere. Now, you’ve learned to become immune to the guilty digs Roman throws your way. “Who’s to say you ever did?” 

Roman visibly tenses at that, and you stride back across to the door. “People don’t change, Roman, and I’m still the selfish asshole that I was in FCW.” 

You jerk the door open and Roman’s still not looking at you. “Seth was smart enough to figure that out, so why can’t you?”


	4. Chapter 4

It begins right away.

It fades into your mind, growing stronger with each day that passes. It takes a slight shift on your thoughts, you begin to look at things differently. 

Envy. 

Jealousy. 

One doth beware the green-eyed monster. 

You’ve heard the tales over and over, that when one possesses too much power, it starts fucking with their head. That’s more or less what happened to Bray, and now, the power is taking its toll on you. 

Except this time, it’s different. You aren’t possessing the power, you’re only getting a taste of what it feels like before Bray yanks it away again. 

Wasn’t that what this process was about all along? Whatever happened to getting the power you so rightfully deserved? 

Bray has short-changed you. 

But, then again, it was foolish to walk into this expecting to be another Bray Wyatt. 

You’re still Dean Ambrose, and the best you’ll ever be is Bray’s counterpart. His companion, his familiar, his better half. 

_Bray’s_ Dean Ambrose. 

His name will always go in front of yours. That’s just how things work. 

But, then again, It's not Bray you envy, it's purely the power he possesses. The way everyone within a mile of the Compound drops at his command, the way everyone on the roster fears him. 

He makes you look weak and pathetic in comparison. 

The last thing you’d wanted was to be another Harper and Rowan, and yet, that’s exactly what you’d ended up being. 

But the affection, the fondness, the love had made you blind to it. The simplistic want and need of being with Bray had made you weak. 

You’re feelings and emotions had gotten in the way yet again. It was a broken record, repeating and repeating, reappearing and reappearing into your life. 

It’d happened with Regal, it’d happened with Seth, it’d happened with Bray. 

Day by day, the realization grows stronger. As does the envy, the jealously. 

It changes your opinions, the way you look at certain things. You start noticing things: the way Bray overpowers you in any situation, the way he treats you like a dog on a leash when you’re together in public. 

It’s overwhelming, having all this information and detail crammed into your mind at once. To think what once was right was now wrong. Your demeanor changes with every minute that ticks by. 

This makes things tense, and once again, you're throwing your guard up around Bray. He may not realize why or what is making you like this, but he's noticing it, nonetheless. Maybe he does know, maybe he's planning on betraying you too. 

You don't abide by him as easily as you did before, you complete the tasks he gives you haphazardly, begrudgingly. Not only are you his trophy wife, but you've managed to turn into his troublesome teenage son, as well. 

This makes him agitated and angry, and then you get agitated and angry, and the two of you are snapping at each other, fighting, yelling. Then, you get to sleep on the couch that night. More or less of your own free will, but more or less that at this point, after you’ve gotten him so irritable, Bray would probably try choking you to death in your sleep. 

You’re fighting almost everyday now, and the words of the latest argument linger about in your restless mind while you’re trying to get comfortable on the less-than-comfortable couch. 

_“Without me, you are nothing,” After the dust had settled, and you’re throat hurts from where Bray had pinned you against the wall after you’d tried throwing a plate at him, Bray’s voice becomes dangerously low. He’s resting against the counter, gaze cast to the floor, and you’re trying to keep as much distance between the two of you as possible. “this is my war, and all it takes, Dean, is a snap of my fingers and you’ll be nothing more than cannon fodder.”_

_“Nice to know, asshole,” You’re tone is still bitter in comparison as you aggressively rub at your neck. “what happened to comrades? What happened to me being the ‘companion on this path to war’? Was all of that just some bullshit to get into my pants?”_

_“You’ve been my enemy before, you know how dangerous of a position that is to be in,” He doesn’t answer your questions, and honestly, this infuriates you even more. “I wouldn’t want to see you be placed in that position ever again, because things are different now, and it wouldn’t just be you getting hurt, Dean. In the end, it would be me, as well.”_

_You don’t know what to say to this, and you hate how Bray can make you speechless so easily, but you listen attentively as he continues._

_“Please,” with any other tone, it would’ve sounded like he was begging you. But, this time, it sounds more like a warning than a plea. His eyes shift up to meet yours, cold little orbs of blue, and you’re frozen on the spot. “don’t become my enemy, Dean.”_

\- - - - - 

Sometime in the late hours of the night or the early hours of the morning, Bray’s hand is gently shaking you awake. All the built up anger had drained from your body, replaced by weariness, and you’re actually happy to see Bray. 

Bray looks just as restless as you feel, and his hand lingers on your shoulder as he speaks. “I apologize for our previous encounter, darling,” his voice is husky with sleep. “I would appreciate it if you would accompany me to bed.” 

Any reasons why you might not accept Bray’s offer and apology have long slipped your mind. They’d all be just to prove a useless point, anyway. 

“Okay,” you take the hand he has offered out to you, and in the surrounding darkness, you follow Bray up the stairs and to his bedroom. 

\- - - - - 

When you wake up a second time that night, you almost forget where you are. You’d grown accustomed to waking up to the fading wallpaper and large fireplace in the living room. Waking up in Bray’s bed, with Bray lying beside you had become a rarity again. 

You stare up at the ceiling, wide awake, Bray’s sleeping form snuggled up against yours. The unmistakable feeling of guilt seeps its way into your system, weighing you down, and you can’t decide if it’s because your behavior towards Bray or the fact that you let him back in. 

Probably both; your conscience was always confusing like that. 

Bray’s breath is steady and warm against your neck, a possessive arm thrown around your waist. The most vulnerable of moments you could possibly find him in. 

You let yourself look at Bray, his features peaceful and untroubled. You’re half expecting him to wake up, disturbed by your gaze alone, but he never does. 

You don’t know why, but the swift image of what it would be like to kill Bray right here while he sleeps creeps its way into your mind. To take the pillow from behind your head and hold it over his face until he stops struggling. What it would look like if you took the lamp from the bed-side table and bashed it into his head, over and over. 

His skull, hollow and cracked, blood and brain staining the bed sheets. You’d present his body to the residents of the Compound and they’d gasp and cry. You’d proclaim yourself king and they’d bow before you. 

With your head held high, and Bray’s lifeless form clutched in your hands, you’d say, “Hear, citizens, I am your new ruler, bow before me in the name of Ambrose.” 

And they would, because you’d slain their king, and the power would transfer over to you. You still wouldn’t be Bray, but you’d be the next best thing. Probably even bigger. 

You fall back asleep thinking that maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad ending after all. 

\- - - - - 

You wake up that next morning, with the sun high in the sky, and you’re surprised that Bray had let you sleep in. It’s what you’d wished for the entire time you’d been living here, but on the other hand, the act in itself doesn’t bode well. 

The empty spot beside you is a mess of tousled sheets, and you reach out, smoothing them over before glancing around the room. Nothing is suspicious or out of place, everything is exactly the same as it’s always been, but it doesn’t calm your nerves in the slightest. 

You get out of bed and walk out into the hallway, safely and undisturbed, and you continue on, approaching the staircase with caution. 

There’s no sound of movement downstairs, and everything runs through your mind as a possibility of what’s waiting for you. 

Bray, Bray with a weapon, Bray with Harper and Rowan, the entire Compound just crammed into the living room, all angry and wanting you dead. 

You take one step at a time, slowly, and when your foot lands on the last step, you peer around for any signs of life. 

Maybe Bray had known your intentions all along, maybe he knew what you were thinking last night, and maybe he’s waiting to take you out before you do him. 

Nothing in the living room. You move on towards the kitchen. 

The floorboards creak underneath your feet as you walk. So much for being stealthy. 

Approaching the doorway, you peer inside to find Bray, sitting at the table, hands intertwined on the surface of it. He’s looking at you before you even notice him. 

“Bray -” 

“Sit,” He tells you, unlacing one hand from the other to gesture towards the chair in front of him. 

“What time is it?” You linger in the doorway, glancing around the room in search of a clock. “Sorry I slept in, I-” 

“ _Sit,_ ” Bray’s tone is sharp this time, impatient. 

You obey, pulling back the chair resentfully and taking a seat. “What?” 

Bray relaxes, his gaze never faltering from you, and in a low, cautionary tone says, "I don't know what your intentions are, nor do I know of the goals you're hoping to accomplish,” he pauses, and you can hear your heartbeat thumping in your ears. “but I have to ask why you insist on being so difficult with me." 

" _What?_ " 

"Answer the question," Bray says. 

"I'm not being difficult-" 

"I disagree," Bray interjects darkly. 

"Okay, fine,” you say, surrendering. “Maybe I am. _Maybe_ I'm tired of all the shit you're giving me, _maybe_ I'm tired of being your fucking lapdog." 

Bray considers this for a moment before saying, "Everything has remained the same from day one, darling, it's you that has changed." 

"Look, I just wanted people to look at me as powerful, okay, and I can't do that from your shadow,” your voice has developed a defensive edge to it, and out the window goes your cool and calm demeanor. “If I wanted to keep getting overlooked, I would've stayed with Roman." 

"I hope you're not planning to do something foolish, Dean." Bray says, and this pushes you way farther on edge than you’d like to be. 

All you can think in this moment is, _He knows. He knows. He knows._

You clear your throat in an attempt to regain your footing. "Like what?" 

"I don't know, only you do." 

"I'm not," 

"Really?" Bray sounds surprised by this. 

"Yeah, I'm not _stupid-_ " 

"I never said you were," Bray says, his voice softer this time. "you possess the brightest mind I've ever come to know, it's your heart that makes the stupid decisions." 

You try thinking of something else to say, and Bray gets up from the table. You watch him as he walks away from the table and towards the back door of the kitchen. Probably off to do his sermons, leaving you with no breakfast and well near a heart attack. 

As he pushes open the door, he turns back to you and says, "Take that as a warning, dove. As the outcome may not be as you predict." And he’s gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click. You’re alone, again. 

You take a moment to breathe. 

Tonight, you decide. Tonight will be night. 

_You’re stupid, you’re so fucking stupid._

The morning will come and you’ll be shine as bright as the sun. You’ll be bathed in the power you deserved from the start. 

_This is so stupid, this is so fucking stupid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter and this story will be told! thank you guys for supporting the fic and leaving such kind words and being wonderful as always. <3


	5. Chapter 5

You find your gun in the glove compartment of your car, a semi-automatic pistol your dad had just handed over to you on your fourteenth birthday. Like it was nothing.

He handed it to you, unwrapped, away from prying eyes, like it was nothing more than a pair of socks. You were fourteen years old, still a kid. You didn’t know what to do with a gun. 

“This might come in handy one day,” He told you. “you just gotta learn how to use it.” 

Days later, after you’d been hiding the gun underneath your mattress like it was some secret diary, your dad eventually taught you how to use it. 

He’d taken you out to the middle of nowhere and had you shoot at random things in the distance. Old tires, rocks, soda bottles that looked like they’d been there for at least a decade. 

“You gotta work on your aim, kid,” He said, clapping a hand down on your shoulder. “a gun’s practically useless if you aint got a good aim.” 

That was the last time you seen him in person, the last time you’d ever talked to him. Now, he’s away, rotting in some prison cell awaiting parole for a crime your mother would never tell you about. It was probably best you didn’t know. 

You find the gun buried behind stacks of various papers: registration, the manual to the car, the ownership deed to the car. You’d almost forgotten you’d even had it. 

You’d went years without a single reminder that gun was in there, that is, until Bray had found it. 

_“What’s this?” You hear Bray ask._

_The two of you are on your way to a hotel in a state miles away from Louisiana. Bray’s letting you drive for a change while he pointlessly rummages through your glove compartment. You don’t ask why. It’s better not to._

_You glance over at him to see him holding the gun, and he’s not even looking at it, he’s looking at you. Accusingly. Suspiciously._

_“Nothing-” you say._

_“Why would you ever feel the need to own one of these vile things?” He’s still holding it, and this whole situation is making you uneasy._

_You feel like you’re being analyzed underneath a microscope. Exposed and raw. “I don’t-”_

_“But you do,”_

_“I don’t know,” You let your gaze turn back to the road, in hopes of distracting you away from this conversation. “my dad gave it to me, it’s not like I wanted it.”_

_“Hm,” Bray says. You can see him examining it out of the corner of your eye. “survival of the fittest.”_

_He reaches over, opens up the glove compartment and places it back inside. Like nothing ever happened. You can breathe again._

\- - - - - 

The gun has felt overwhelming heavy in your pocket for the remainder of the day, and it took all you had to pull on a smile when Bray returned home. You’d lost count of how many times you’d thought about just abandoning the mission all together, and you probably could - just sneak the gun back into your car and everything would go back to normal. 

But, you can’t. 

You’ve made up your mind, and you’re tired of being second-guessed. 

You’re tired of being overlooked, you’re tired of being Bray’s puppet, you’re tired of living within the shadow of your friends - you’re just fucking tired. 

Now - now is the time to do something about it. Now or never, right? 

You’re in the living room while Bray’s busy in the kitchen with tonight’s dinner, and the guilt of something you haven’t even done yet is settling over you. Heavy. Consuming. 

Your right hand keeps finding its way to the pocket that holds the gun, absentmindedly, as if it’s itching to complete the task. 

Not yet. Soon. 

You’re staring blankly at the small television you bought ages ago (or at least it feels that way) and the commercial that’s currently playing does nothing to penetrate your thoughts. You watch the commercial with dead eyes - a cheaply made 30-second advertisement involving a local car shop in Louisiana - and you watch as the salesman with a bad comb-over stands in front of his outdated cars and rattles on about the newest additions. 

The sound of dishes rattling come from in the kitchen, as does the sound of the oven opening and closing, and Bray’s humming softly to himself. You’ll never hear that again, and it’s a hard thought to swallow once it settles within your mind. By tomorrow, Bray will be dead - cold, buried in the backyard with mounds of dirt suffocating his body - and it’ll be your fault. You did this - you’ll have destroyed the source of happiness and pain and anger and frustration that you once knew. 

\- - - - - 

_Despite the compound being populated with run-down houses and unattractive people, it was nice at night. All the residents had returned inside their little shitty homes, without leaving behind any traces that they’d been anywhere else before._

_Sometimes, when you and Bray had grown tired of being cramped inside the house, you’d go outside - at night, when there was no one else around - and just enjoy each other’s company._

_Tonight, the moon is high against the black canvas of the night sky and the stars twinkle all around it. The sound of crickets echo within the air. It’s peaceful. If you ever had a happy place set in your mind to escape to when things got overwhelming, this would be it. The compound at night with Bray._

_You lay back across the dewy grass, hands clasped together behind your head, and you just stare up at the sky, almost mystified that you could ever exist outside of chaos - even for the slightest of moments. Bray’s sitting against the trunk of a tree and your feet are propped up in his lap. He doesn’t mind - he probably never minded - he just wants you think he minds at times when certain boundaries seem of importance._

_“Once upon a time,” Bray says, his voice merging in with the crickets in a way that’s almost perfect. “in the unforgiving swamps of Louisiana, there lived a young boy with no goals nor direction.”_

_You glance over at him and he’s staring straight ahead, completely lost within the story he’s telling. You let your gaze drift back up to the stars and listen attentively._

_“A boy who'd been the reason for his mother's death - she'd been so kind to give up her life after she'd created his,” Bray continues. “A boy who'd been left under the defective supervision of his daddy - a mean, drunk monster of a man who made a habit of criticizing and beating his son.”_

_There’s this certain edge to his voice that could only come from bringing up personal reminders of a previous life - it’s the same one you’ve heard in your own voice when asked about your past. This story is about Bray, himself - but, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out._

_“One day, when the boy was about ten years old, he'd grown tired of the way his daddy treated him and he put a stop to it,” He glances over at you and you can feel his stare burning into your skin. “You see, darling, this boy's daddy - well, he was something of a fisherman - and he spent most of his days wasting away on his shrimp boat - and that shrimp boat was the last place he'd ever chosen to waste away.”_

_You watch Bray out of the corner of your eye as he turns his attention back to the nothingness ahead of him. “That day, the boy witnessed his father and his daddy's shrimp boat be blown to pieces, and it sank into the sea, nothing more than a peice of charcoal with his daddy's incinerated corpse left to be scattered among the water.”_

_“Years later, after the boy had broken free of his father's restraints and was left to reinvent himself, he came across a woman named Abigail. She was beautiful -” he’s looking at you again. “as beautiful as you are, dove - and she promised the boy that all he ever dreamed of could become reality - and it did. She gave the boy power and strength- she made him respected and feared across the entire state of Louisiana - she made the boy into a god.”_

_You’re not sure why Bray’s telling you this - opening up and revealing any weaker points of himself to you. Maybe it’s to make a point - a point you won’t find out the reason to until days, maybe years later. Anything Bray’s ever said to you always sorta works like that. There’s a meaning behind everything._

_“However, Abigail left the boy years later, passed away - and the boy still mourns her - even to this day,” Bray says. “For years, the boy thought he would never have his happy ending - since Abigail had left him alone in this cruel world - that is, until he met another soul as damaged and broken as his own - yet so beautiful and astonishing beyond words. The soul that the boy met - you might find to be slightly familiar.”_

_Oh._

_“And for the entirety of his life up until this certain point - the boy had always assumed Abigail to be the other half to his soul - his soulmate, if you will - but it was clear from the very second he laid eyes on this wise yet damaged individual - that this was the boy's true soulmate.”_

_Oh._

_Oh Shit._

\- - - - - 

Bray calls you to dinner and it’s showtime. 

_Now or never. Now or never. Now or never._

Your hand fumbles with the gun in your pocket as you make your way to the small kitchen. Bray’s standing at the oven with his back to you, spooning out some of the food onto a plate. 

You pull the gun out before you even realize what you’re doing. 

If you think about it, you can easily take comfort in possibility of putting the gun away before Bray notices. But, you don’t. The idea just floats about in your head, simmering away into nothing as you point the gun at the back of Bray’s neck. 

The gun is trembling in your hand, and you start to think that maybe Bray doesn’t deserve this. But, really - did any of the people you’ve ever fucked over in your lifetime deserve what they got? 

Did Regal ever deserve to get beaten into the mat back at FCW, his blood staining the canvas of it? 

Did Seth ever deserve to be terrorized for months - for years? You’d been terrorizing Seth ever since you met him, but did he ever really deserve that? 

Did Roman ever deserve to be stabbed in the back not once - but twice? Did he ever deserve to be abandoned and betrayed by two people he once thought of as family? 

Does Bray deserve to die at the hand of your own selfishness? 

No, probably not. Nobody ever really deserved to meet you - to have you in their lives - but, it just sorta happened that way. You are the cancer that everyone’s trying to forget. You have been your whole life. 

You pull the hammer back - the soft click of it surprisingly loud - and Bray visibly tenses. 

Bray knows what this is - he knows that you’ve got a gun aimed directly at him - ready to fire at a moment’s notice. He turns around to face you, slowly - his eyes settling on the gun first and then on you. 

You can see it in his face - the regret, the confusion - the visible why that’s running across his mind. 

“I thought I told you not to do anything foolish, Dean,” He says, voice low and steady. You’re a trembling mess in comparison. 

“Yeah, well,” You readjust your grip on the gun, making the attempt to steady your hand but to no avail. “I thought you’d be making me into some powerful god, and yet I’m still the weak, deranged little shit I’ve been my entire life.” 

“That depends entirely upon you - you make the decision of whether to walk the path of righteousness or -” 

“You _owe_ me, Bray,” You’re angry, now - anger and frustration piling on top of the heap of emotions you’re experiencing currently within this moment. 

Bray says nothing to this. His gaze falters to the floor for the slightest of seconds before returning to your face. Processing, registering. You half-expect him to hit you right then and there. 

“I apologize for lacking the expected amount of surprise you were looking for, Dean,” He says, staring at you head-on, looking through you - making you feel uncomfortably exposed. It’s funny how he’s always able to do that - make you feel like you’re in the passenger’s seat of things when you intend on driving. “but I must say, while you are the most fascinating creature I've ever laid eyes on, you're also the most predictable." 

And before the either of you can say anything else, Bray’s slamming you into the tiled floors of the kitchen. 

The gun’s still in your hand when you fall to the floor - landing hard and Bray’s on top of you. He’s angry - furious - and understandably so - and it burns within his eyes. He slams his fists into your chest, over and over, and you’ve forgotten how to breathe. He’s punching at any and every part of you he can - one blow hits your nose, cracking it - and fresh blood oozes down from it. 

You’re not fighting back. You can’t. The least you can do is lay there and take it - struggle beneath Bray as he punches in every inch of your body. Caving it in and breaking it. 

He grips your head in his hands and beats it back against the floor - over and over until you hear the wet sound of blood and your scalp feels warm and damp. 

He’s trying to kill you, he’s gonna kill you. It’s you or him, and even though you probably didn’t expect it to end up this way - it’s most likely gonna be him to survive. 

Survival of the fittest. 

\- - - - - 

_“Why did you wanna see me?” You ask, like you’re at some boring office job and you’ve just been summoned by your boss._

_Bray stands in front of you, smiling, like your presence alone is the greatest gift he could have ever received._

_“I always wanna see you, darling,” Bray says, in that enchanting and charming way he ever says anything. “only you’re not mine to see. Not yet.”_

_You’ve agreed to meet Bray in some dark corner of the backstage area of the arena and it’s only now that you’re starting to wonder why. You’re still feuding with Bray - the two of you at each other’s throats on television - and it’s weird how you can transition into something oddly similar to old friends when you’re not on camera._

_“You’re seeing me now,” You shrug. “You see me a lot, actually, I don’t understand why we have to have these little secret meetings - somebody might get the wrong idea.”_

_If it was possible, Bray smiles even wider at this. “Any distance from you is too far away, Dean. I wanna be with you every single second of the day, it’s as simple and complicated as that.”_

_Complicated is right. Simple - not so much._

_But, then again, Bray’s the most complicated person you’ve ever come to know._

_“Okay,” you peer around Bray just in case someone’s around, but nobody is and your attention returns to Bray. It’s just then that you realize you may have just agreed to let Bray see you every second of the day._

_Honestly, it probably wouldn’t be all that bad if he did._

\- - - - - 

Bray’s lying there, back against the cold hardwood flooring, his hips squeezed between your knees. The smell of blood is nauseating, and your will to let Bray live amazes you. 

You’ll probably never realize why you hadn’t pulled trigger already, maybe because you know nothing could be accomplished from it. There is no other Bray, there is only one Bray, and even if you took his power, you’d be considered nothing more than a stand in. 

Maybe it’s because, in some twisted sense, you love Bray. You love Bray so much that you’d hate yourself for killing him. 

You hate yourself already, you’ve hated yourself since the moment you’d been born. Everyone hates you, now; Roman, Seth. 

Bray’s the only one who doesn’t. 

‘I - Bray, I -” 

Bray stares up at you, waiting. Watching as every single shred of sanity leaks out of you. 

You don’t even realize you’re flicking the hammer of the gun back up until you hear the click of it slicing through your broken sobs. This, you can tell from just the look on his face, Bray didn’t predict. He’s looking at you with more surprise than you ever seen on him before. 

Maybe he already knew you wouldn’t do it, that you’d chicken out in some shape or form, and maybe he believed until now. 

You take the gun away from his forehead and throw it off to the side, the sound of a light thud against hardwood floors. 

Bray remains on the ground even as you cautiously rise to your feet, still standing between him, still an emotional wreck. At this moment, you’re not you anymore. You’re a ghost of what you used to be, the broken remains of your shell. All that’s inside of you is cold and black, just like Bray. Dead, but not really. 

Neither of you say anything, you meet his still-shocked expression with a look of pity, and you turn towards the front door and walk. Leaving everything behind, you open the door, Bray still watching you, and you walk out into the night. 

No destination in mind, just away. 

Away from Bray. Away from this life. Away from the remains of yourself that you left inside that house with Bray. Away from the memories. 

Maybe you didn’t deserve a fresh start, maybe there wouldn’t be anyone there when you came back. You don’t ponder over it. 

Your mind is as blank as the starless night sky and you walk. Down the street across from the Compound and keep on going. Aimlessly. 

Reborn, almost. With the reminders of what you once were still hanging over you. Maybe they’d never go away, maybe you’d never actually change. 

You are who you are. 

Dean Ambrose has always been some form of evil, never a purity within sight, and you’d remain like that until you died. 

Tainted. By everything. By Bray, by experience, by living. 

Ruined. 

The sound of crickets echo through out the silent air, the smell of rain pollutes your surroundings. A gentle breeze dances within your hair. 

As defilement, you stand out against the pure environment of nature. An idea so lyrical that Bray would be able to contort it into some sort of twisted little poem. The thought of him sizzles out in your mind, leaving to never return again. 

You’re finished. With Bray and with everything. 

Brand new. 

\- - - - - 

From the opened door, Bray watches as Dean’s wandering form disappears into the suffocating darkness of the night. The gun that he once held is still discarded onto the floor, forgotten and disregarded. 

Bray knows that he’s failed Dean, and it stings worse than any pain he’s felt before. Because he loved Dean, he saw a future in Dean, but as neurotic as Dean was, it was foolish not to think that he’d see to everything crumbling down around him. 

The kid just wanted to be happy, he just wanted the attention he deserved, and when he got a taste of that happiness, he wanted more, and more until it was too much to handle. 

Bray had Dean mapped out, he knew him better than anyone had ever known Dean Ambrose before, but he’d never really seen this coming. The shock didn’t soften the blow in the least, it made it almost unbearable to deal with, but Bray eventually would cope. 

He always did. 

The same couldn’t be said for Dean. 

Bray lets Dean go, closing the door and resting his back against it. 

Dean would blame himself for this, Bray knew, but what Dean would be oblivious to was that Bray would blame himself as well. 

In the end, they both were to blame. They’d unintentionally destroyed each other, and now they were persisting in the remains. They’d had a love based off of hate. 

Everything is never as it seems. Life is death. Pain is pleasure. Love is hate. 

Building is destroying. 

Nothing is ever completely static, everything eventually falls apart. 

In their case, nothing would ever be more true. 

_I’m sorry we didn’t make it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, unhappy endings are the best, aren't they?


End file.
